


Relief

by Wonko



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, I Blame Tumblr, Implied Sexual Content, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Mindfuck, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 00:46:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13869492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wonko/pseuds/Wonko
Summary: Jac comes to Frieda's flat after the events of S20E09 to talk. Frieda thinks they've said all that needs to be said. They find a new way to communicate.





	Relief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ProfessorFlimflam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorFlimflam/gifts).



“Where’s Frieda?”

Nicky flopped down on the sofa next to Meena, ripping open a bag of Golden Wonder Prawn Cocktail and offering it to her friend. Meena’s eyes were glued to the TV but she shoved her hand in the packet and grabbed a handful.

“Oi! The polite thing is to take one!”

Meena shrugged. “It’ll save you offering again,” she said.

Nicky grumbled for a moment but quickly became engrossed in the programme too. She’d almost forgotten she’d asked about Frieda until the woman herself emerged from her room, her face thunderous.

“Can you turn down the volume please?” she asked, but her tone made it clear it wasn’t really a request. “Some of us have an early shift tomorrow.”

Meena scrambled for the remote. “Sorry!” she said, but Frieda was already stalking back to her room.

Nicky frowned. “What’s up with her?”

Sighing, Meena shook her head. “Something to do with Jac,” she muttered. “She didn’t really want to talk about it.”

Nicky rolled her eyes. “Oh, God. You know what I heard some of the porters calling her?” She leaned forward and dropped her voice theatrically. “ _Jacula.”_

Meena’s eyes twinkled with glee. “Do you think she drinks the blood of registrars? Would explain why Frieda always looks so pale.”

Nicky grinned. “Maybe. She might drink F1s’ blood too.” A thought struck her that started coming out of her mouth before she could fully think it through. “I donated blood after the shooting. She might have some of mine.”

Meena’s face fell at the mention of the elephant in the room that no-one liked to talk about. “Not very funny,” she said, and Nicky winced.

“Sorry.”

They lapsed into silence again, turning away from each other to stare at the TV. The commercial break had just ended and Charity and Vanessa were flirting over the bar in the Woolpack.

Just as it looked like the two of them would finally get their act together and just kiss, there was a sharp knock at the door. Nicky turned to Meena. “Expecting anyone?”

“Nope,” Meena said, rising. “Probably a Jehovah’s Witness, knowing our luck.”

It wasn’t.

It was Jac.

“Ms Naylor,” Meena spluttered, stepping back from the door automatically. Nicky whirled round on the sofa, eyes wide.

Jac just raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Is Petrenko at home?”

Meena blinked hard and fast. “Uhm...yes.” She raised her voice. “Frieda!”

There was an excruciating delay. It couldn’t have lasted more than fifteen seconds in reality, but to Meena it might as well have been a lifetime. Jac Naylor, the queen high bitch of Darwin, standing in her living room. She’d probably have been less intimidated if Serena Campbell herself had shown up and asked her to run the hospital for a couple of days while she took some time off to travel to Nairobi and shag her girlfriend.

Eventually Frieda appeared, looking sullen and intransigent. “What do you want?”

A muscle clenched in Jac’s jaw. “To talk.”

Frieda scoffed. “Why on earth would I want to talk to you?”

“I’m your boss, Petrenko-” Jac began, but Frieda cut her off.

“At work,” she said. “We’re not at work. You’re an uninvited guest in my home.” She leaned back against the doorframe and crossed her arms over her chest.

Meena and Nicky were glancing from one woman to the other, like they were watching a particularly long rally at Wimbledon.

Jac took a deep breath through her nose. Like she was spitting blood, she forced out a single word. “Please.”

Frieda regarded her contemplatively in silence for a long moment. At last, she pushed herself off the doorframe and nodded towards her bedroom.

Jac followed her in and closed the door behind them. Meena looked at Nicky, her eyes bulging. “Turn the TV back up,” she hissed. “This is a conversation I really don’t want to overhear.”

* * * * *

Jac looked around the room, taking in the dark aesthetic, the posters of various metal bands, the scattered clothes and leather chokers. She sniffed a little. It was pretty much what she’d expected.

Frieda perched on the edge of her bed and leaned back slightly. She didn’t offer to let Jac sit on the only seat in the room, a comfortable looking leather chair in front of a desk. “I thought you said you wouldn’t be troubling me again, Jac.”

Jac took a deep breath. “I…” she began haltingly, feeling like every word was a drop of blood she was trying to squeeze from a stone. She ground her teeth. It was a bad habit, one her dentist had tried everything to cure her of. She even had a silicone mouth guard at home, to stop her grinding her enamel to dust every night. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I...regret...some of the things that were said this afternoon.”

Frieda just looked at her impassively. “Was that supposed to be an apology?” she said. “Because you are very bad at apologising, if so.”

“Well, it’s not something I do often,” Jac replied impulsively, then slammed her mouth closed.

Frieda raised one dark eyebrow. “So it _is_ an apology,” she said. “Passive voice or no passive voice.”

Jac said nothing. Her mind was in a state of flux. She wasn’t quite sure why she was here, except that she had alienated Fletch, who had become her closest ally, and now she had alienated Petrenko. And even the peerless Jac Naylor sometimes felt alone. Well, she always felt alone. That was the deal in life. You were born alone, you lived alone, you died alone. Other people might flit in and out, but fundamentally that was all there was. You could rely on two things: yourself, and the sunrise. That was it.

But sometimes she regretted that it was so. Sometimes she wished she could retract the spines that hurt the people who tried to get close to her. Not often. But sometimes.

“I just wanted to make sure you’d do your job professionally when we’re next on shift together,” she said.

Frieda’s nostrils flared. “I have _never_ been less than professional,” she hissed. “I refuse to accept that from a woman who will not take sick leave when she clearly needs it, who puts herself and others at risk by operating when she’s not fit, who spends her days hiding from her colleagues in supply cupboards.” She stood up and drew herself to her full height, taking advantage of the extra inch or two she had on Jac. “You spoke about tragedy earlier,” she said. “You want to know what the real tragedy is?” She took a step forward, invading Jac’s personal space. “I was _kind_ to you,” she said. “I helped you. I did everything a friend should do. But you never saw me as anything but a threat.” She reached up and stroked her fingers across a fine, high cheekbone. “Because you don’t know what to do with kindness, do you? It’s alien to you. As alien as weakness.”

Jac flinched away from Frieda’s touch like her fingers burned. “A psych as well as a surgeon, are we?” she spat, but she didn’t move away. She wasn’t entirely sure why.

Frieda shook her head. “No,” she said. “Just a keen observer of human nature.” She hesitated for a fraction of a second, a barely noticeable interval of time. Then she grasped Jac’s chin between her fingers and pulled her head back round. “Would you like to know what I’ve observed about you?”

Their eyes met and held for a long, long moment. Jac’s breath was shallow in her throat. She knew she should be shaking Petrenko off. She should be spitting invective and threats and walking out the door to make plans of how she’d make this woman’s life hell. She didn’t know why she wasn’t.

“Frieda?” Nicky’s voice called the other side of the door. “We’re going to the pub, d’you wanna come?”  

Frieda didn’t take her eyes from Jac’s. “No,” she called back. “Ms Naylor and I have a few more things to discuss.”

They listened to the sounds of Frieda’s flatmates pulling on coats and finding keys. When the front door closed at last, it was like some spell had been broken. Jac finally found the strength to look away from Frieda’s intense stare. “I don’t care what you think of me,” she said, but her tone was one of habit rather than force.

Frieda smirked. “And yet here you are.” She leaned forward and whispered in Jac’s ear. “In my bedroom.”

The feeling of Petrenko’s warm breath ghosting over her ear drew an involuntary gasp from Jac’s lips. Frieda’s smirk grew wider. She began to circle Jac like a predator toying with its prey.

“There are some women with powerful jobs who like to stay in control all the time,” she said conversationally. “And there are some who like to give up that control in...certain situations.” When she arrived in front of Jac again, she was holding a set of handcuffs. Not metal like policeman’s cuffs. Not fur lined like Jac had seen women on hen parties trying out for a laugh. These were made of red patent leather, thick and high quality, with shining silver buckles and a gleaming silver chain connecting them. Frieda leaned forward and pressed her lips to Jac’s ear. “Shall we find out which kind you are?”

Jac breathed deeply through her nose. “I don’t know what you think I came here for, Petrenko-” she began, but Frieda cut her off.

“You can leave at any time,” she said. “Walk away. Go on. Bring me up on a grievance with HR tomorrow.”

Jac looked away from Frieda, turning her face to one side and staring at a spot on the wall where some paint had flecked off, probably after a poster had been hastily removed. She imagined the blu-tac coming away with chips of beige paint on it, Petrenko cursing and spending hours buying paint tester pots to find the right colour to touch it up so she wouldn’t lose her security deposit. She deliberately chose not to think about the handcuffs, at least until Petrenko lightly grasped her wrists and pulled them behind her back.

“If you want me to stop,” Frieda said slightly. “Say stop.”

The word leapt to Jac’s lips. She let it fill her mouth, tasting the shape and texture of it. She thought of how it would sound in this silent room, how it would echo. Would she whisper it? Or shout it? Would Petrenko scrabble back, all apologies and panicked fear? Or would she calmly walk away and leave Jac wondering...wondering why her heart was beating so fast and why her skin burned where Petrenko was touching her.

She swirled the word around her mouth like a fine wine. And swallowed it.

Slowly and gently, Frieda buckled the cuffs onto Jac’s wrists.

A rush of breath escaped from Jac’s lips and she almost staggered. But Petrenko was there, right behind her. She wrapped an arm round her stomach and pulled her back against her chest, bringing her lips to her ear.

“You need to rest,” she murmured. “You’ve been so strong. Such a strong woman. You wear that strength like a coat of chainmail.” Her lips nuzzled against Jac’s ear. “Give it to me, Jac. Let me be the strong one. Just here. Just us. You can be the queen of Darwin all you want. But in this room...tonight?” She let her teeth nip gently on Jac’s earlobe. “You’ll be mine.”

Jac’s head fell back against Frieda’s shoulder, minutely, almost imperceptibly. Frieda could see the pulse hammering in her throat. She kissed it, drawing another gasp.

Jac could feel her control slipping. It had been so long...could she even remember the last time she hadn’t been on her guard? Hadn’t been waiting for the next blow? Perhaps she could. That day, walking down the back stairs, having just given Raf a letter for Hanssen. She’d felt light. Free. Happy, even.

And look what had happened then.

Without realising it, she began to shake. Frieda felt it begin and pulled her closer, somehow managing to transfer a piece of her strength. Just a tiny piece. But it was enough. “I understand, Jac,” she said. “I understand better than you know. You want to control your pain.” She kissed her cheek, slowly and deliberately. “But none of us get to do that.”

Jac’s eyes burned. She blinked, determined not to let it happen. “What do I do?” she whispered, almost unaware she’d even spoken aloud.

Frieda let go of her and circled back round to the front. She met her eyes. “Rest, Jac,” she said softly. “Give your control to me. I will keep it safe for you, until the morning.”

Her eyes flitted over Frieda’s face. She was calm. Confident. In control. Jac found that she trusted her. Almost more than she trusted herself.

She nodded.

“What do you want me to do, Petrenko?” she asked. A flood of lightness washed through her. She’d had no idea how heavy the yoke of her self-imposed control was, until it was suddenly lifted.

Frieda smiled slowly. “First, I want you to call me Frieda.”

Jac nodded. “Frieda,” she said. It felt like a big step. It felt like…

Relief.

**Author's Note:**

> So what happened was, I was watching Holby City on Wednesday night like a totally normal person, and then I got this strong image of Jac instructing Frieda to give her suction in an entirely different context than we saw on the episode. I _innocently_ posted this to tumblr and ProfessorFlimflam, a bad influence, replied: "but you know what’s hotter? Petrenko ordering suction from Jac…" And tagged it #Jac needs topping. And so this was born. And then I ended up writing something semi-serious and the suction joke didn't even fit anymore. Sigh.


End file.
